


Requiem for a Lark

by Bouncey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Geralt is a Big Dumb Idiot in Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, If it's kidnapping does it count as bondage?, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, Kidnapping the Bard in Exchange for Free Monster Slaying, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ransom, Rescue, swan princess references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: “Are you happy Geralt?” Jaskier whispered to the otherwise empty dungeon. He pulled his knees against his chest and wrapped his bound arms around them for warmth. He knew the Witcher couldn’t hear the sorrow in his voice and for that he was endlessly thankful. The last thing Geralt needed to distract him from the Path were Jaskier’s all-consuming feelings for him. “Are you happy now that I’m gone and you have some peace?”Jaskier is kidnapped by a foolish noble who wants to exchange his safety for a free monster hunt from Geralt. Geralt, of course, comes to the aid of his favorite bard (and makes a few important realizations along the way).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 657





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone on my poll asked for whump. 
> 
> Here it is!
> 
> Story title taken from the song "Requiem for a Lark" by The Accidentals (if you like indie/folk music you should really check them out, I went to high school with them and their music is really good).

Once the drugs wore off and Jaskier regained a flimsy sense of consciousness, he looked around his cell and noted that this wasn’t the worst accommodation he’d ever been given. There had been inns less comfortable than this stone room, even with the scratchy hemp rope around his wrists and the chains that led from his ankles to an iron ring in the wall. There was a holey blanket, a thin cot, and a grate in the floor clearly meant to provide the same comforts as a chamber pot might have. All the amenities, really. 

As an added bonus Jaskier was alone here, free from Geralt’s oppressive silences or shouted insults. Always snapping at him to  _ shut up  _ or  _ fuck off  _ or  _ find something useful to do instead of yapping at me like some noblewoman’s lapdog.  _ For a man of so few words, Geralt of Rivia crafted some rather masterful insults. Just yesterday he’d lost his patience with the bard again and kicked him out of their rented room for the night. That's how he'd ended up here. Most likely. That _was_ the last thing he really remembered happening, anyway.

Jaskier could still see it all at the front of his mind; those wide shoulders filling the doorway and that canine-heavy grimace bearing down on him with such snarling, angry words: “ _ You always get yourself into trouble, bard! My life would be so much easier if you could just keep your wandering hands and your flowery words to yourself. Do you ever think about your own safety before you speak, even once? Get out of here. Go perform somewhere and let me have one evening of peace!” _

“Are you happy, Geralt?” Jaskier whispered to the otherwise empty dungeon. He pulled his knees against his chest and wrapped his bound arms around them for warmth. He knew the Witcher couldn’t hear the sorrow in his voice and for that he was endlessly thankful. The last thing Geralt needed to distract him from the Path were Jaskier’s all-consuming feelings for him. “Are you happy now that I’m gone and you can finally have some peace?”

* * *

“Ah, so you’re the White Wolf’s pet bard, eh?” a bright, tenor voice asked from outside the cell. The bard glanced up to see a dark-haired man in an impressive burgundy ensemble leaning against the metal bars. He must have been daydreaming, then. He'd been doing that a lot lately, letting his mind go to far-off places without him. 

“As you can see, I am very well kept,” Jaskier snorted. The stranger chuckled humorlessly in response.

“The Witcher  _ will _ come looking for you, right? I am in need of his services.”

"And you thought kidnapping me was going to get his attention? There are easier ways."

"I'd rather not pay the exorbitant prices he demands for such services," the lordling sighed. "So I figured this was the cheapest way to handle it."

"Of course," Jaskier rolled his eyes. He came from noble blood, he understood that to them money and status were everything. Why pay a Witcher when you could just trick one into doing your dirty work for you? 

"He'll come for you quickly though, yes?"

“Probably not.”

“Damnit,” the man cursed. 

Jaskier saw the stranger’s fists clench and began to worry. This man, clearly a noble like the bard had once been, was used to getting his way and getting it  _ quickly.  _ Geralt really hadn’t really done anything  _ quickly  _ in the last few weeks, too grouchy and brooding to care. Their last job would have taken only two days if the Witcher hadn’t been so adamant about Jaskier not being around to see the effects of his elixirs. How was the bard supposed to write a ballad without any material? It was ludicrous! But Geralt had insisted and Jaskier had insisted and so they’d remained at a stalemate and the job took four days instead of two. 

“He’s been in a bit of a mood lately. It might take him a bit longer than usual to even realize I’m missing. Have you considered putting a flier up? Perhaps sending a footman with a personal invitation?”

“Many of my informants have assured me that he  _ always  _ flies to your rescue,” the man mused, ignoring Jaskier’s sarcastic remarks completely. “I can only hope that he comes sooner rather than later since I’m dealing with a time sensitive monster. I _certainly_ hope he arrives before I forget about you down here and you starve to death.”

_ You and me both, good sir.  _

The nobleman realized he wasn’t going to get anything out of Jaskier at the moment and turned as if to make his way back upstairs. He stopped in the shadows of the doorway and gave a sharp, quick laugh. “I’ve had a brilliant idea, good bard! I  _ am _ going to make a flier. An invitation, even. As you suggested. I’m going to host a splendid party at the end of this week for the entire town to attend. It will be the night of the full moon; exactly what I need to draw this monster close. If the White Wolf isn’t here by then to sort this whole thing out, then I’m sure he’d be fine with me using you as bait to take care of the problem myself.”

Jaskier was glad when the stranger finally loped up the stairs and out of sight. Then he could let loose and really cry, letting the sobs shudder through his hollow chest cavity. He felt carved out and empty. Hopeless. He’d never felt _hopeless_ before. There had always been Geralt...but now?

_ He wasn’t even heading in this direction when he kicked me out of the inn. He might not hear the news in time. I’m probably going to die at the end of this very week, ripped to shreds by some kind of were-thing.  _ The tired bard laid down on his side and curled into a ball, trying to stay warm, stay conscious, and hold himself together all at once. It wasn’t working very well. His sobs faded to hiccups and whimpers and the light of the torch seemed blurry and far away. 

After hours of staring at the wall, wallowing in the knowledge that the last look he’d ever see on Geralt’s face was an angry sneer, Jaskier fell into an uneasy and nightmarish sleep.

* * *

“Was there a bard here earlier?” Geralt asked, fingers tapping against the bar impatiently. The portly innkeeper gave him a loathing sneer.

“Maybe.”

“Blue doublet, brown hair, probably thrusting his hips around a bit too much for anyone’s liking?”

“Maybe.”

“Fucking hells,” Geralt snarled, grasping the uncooperative villager by his lapels and dragging him halfway over the countertop. “Was he in here performing or not?”

“He was in here,” another patron interrupted. Geralt's eyes moved in his direction, paying close attention to what he said. “But he wasn’t performing. He ordered two drinks, never even finished the first, and left very quickly with two tall men in purple cloaks.”

“Which way did they go?”

“North? I think? I don’t know exactly but the crest on their armor looked familiar. The bard seemed pretty drunk, too.”

“From one unfinished ale?”

The innkeeper fidgeted in Geralt’s grasp and the Witcher’s yellow eyes snapped back to his face. “What did you slip into that drink?”

“Those men worked for Lord Von Rothbart two counties over. They gave me fifty silver just to slip some laudanum into his ale.”

“And you  _ did _ ?” the Witcher’s question was hissed out through clenched teeth. “You foolish, selfish fuck. Did you even ask what they were going to _do_ to him? He could be dead or worse.”

"Worse than dead?" the patron chuckled. "No such thing."

"There very much is. And if that bard gets injured you'll know exactly how much worse than dead it can get."

The innkeeper began to babble, eyes wide with fear,  “They said I could do it or they could take him by force. He seemed nice and I figured it would be easier to drug him than let him be beaten. They said he'd come to no harm at their hands!”

“Excuses, excuses,” Geralt laughed. It was a dark, twisted sound and the innkeeper flinched back. The Witcher released his shirt and swung his swords back over his shoulder. “Humans are the  _ worst. _ ”

* * *

“Wakey-wakey, little bard!” the nobleman clapped, practically jigging down the steps two at a time as he made his way into the dungeon. It had been nearly three days since his last visit, the party was probably close to planned. Light crept in through several small windows lining the high wall of the cell and Jaskier rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he blinked against it. The young Lord smiled through the bars to his captive, “I have news of your Wolf!”

The bard didn’t speak. He only glared at the stupid, pompous stranger in hateful silence. 

“I suppose before I tell you anything more I should properly introduce myself. I am Lord Von Rothbart. You, no doubt, are Jaskier. Welcome to my humble abode,” Von Rothbart bowed mockingly. “Shall we hear the news now that the formalities are over with?”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes further and took a seat on the edge of his dirty cot. 

“He’s been spotted in town. Hasn’t made a move to visit yet, but I’m sure he’s only gathering his strength. No doubt he’ll try to break you free on his own before giving in and helping me kill that stupid werewolf.”

Silence.

“Or perhaps he intends to ride straight through the village and leave you here to die. He hasn’t chosen to bed down at any of our fine inns.”

Nothing. Jaskier wouldn’t let him see just how much those words hurt. Geralt probably  _ was  _ just riding through town. He probably wouldn’t even stop to look at the message board, the flier for Jaskier's human sacrifice hanging front and center. The bard fought back his tears with practiced ease. He'd learned long ago that Witchers hate the scent of human sadness quite a lot. It irritated them. Made them prickly and hard to talk with. Or perhaps that was just Geralt; Jaskier wasn't sure. 

_But no_ , the bard steeled himself. _Rothbart won't be getting anything out of me. Not tears and certainly not information._ No matter what the cocksure nobleman did to Jaskier, he would not give in. He would protect Geralt even if he couldn’t protect himself. He would go to an early grave with every single one of his Witcher's secrets close to his heart.

* * *

“Lord Von Rothbart is throwing some monster-baiting party tomorrow, is that why you’re in town?” the barkeep asked, sliding Geralt his mug of ale. The Witcher hadn’t even pulled his hood down to reveal his true identity yet and already he was being offered a job. He would have considered it his lucky day if that were the reason he’d come to town. “Are you here to help him kill the thing?"

“No.”

“Then why would a Witcher be traveling through werewolf infested woods with his swords on?”

“Looking for a friend.”

“Didn’t know your kind had friends.”

“Just one,” Geralt sighed, staring into the half-empty tankard. “Maybe.”

“Does your friend happen to be a bard?” the barkeep questioned. Geralt heard the nervous undercurrent in the man’s tone and watched as he spun a rag uselessly between his fingers. 

“What makes you ask that?” 

_ Which one of Jaskier’s stupid stories has reached this particular village, then? Which strangely elaborated tale will I have to set straight for this man and his little brood of curious friends?  _

“Well Lord Von Rothbart wanted this  _ particular _ Witcher to take care of his werewolf problem, you see. Apparently he’s called the White Wolf and he’s the best monster-slayer and curse-breaker in the land,” he explained. Geralt was paying close attention now, “His Lordship even went through all the trouble of kidnapping his  _ personal bard  _ to ensure that the job gets done right. So far the Witcher hasn’t answered Von Rothbart’s summons. I hope he does and I hope he doesn't; I want to see if his Lordship really goes through with his plan for the bard.”

“What kind of plan would a Lord have for a bard?” Geralt asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "Other than ransom?"

“Well the flier said that if this Wolf person doesn’t show up in time and do the job for free, then His Lordship will use the bard as werewolf bait.”

Geralt couldn't wait another moment. Not if Jaskier was in this much danger. The furious Witcher pulled his hood back to reveal his white hair and narrowed yellow eyes. “Which way to the fucking castle?”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make Pyotr Tchaikovsky the villain's lackey? Yup.
> 
> I was going for some subtle Swan Lake vibes and I hope they came through.
> 
> Enjoy my first real work of intentional whump!
> 
> (You guys know I'm a slut for song lyrics so this chapter has utilized "Tragic Mishaps" by The Accidentals. Would highly suggest checking them out.)

“Ah, Jaskier!” a new voice called. The bard looked towards the stairs and saw an unfamiliar man with greying hair surrounded by a cloud of servants. “At last we meet! I’ve heard so much about you from my good master, the Lord Von Rothbart.”

“Who are you?”

“Pyotr,” the man bowed. “I am Lord Von Rothbart’s personal maestro. I run the household and organize the entertainment for parties such as this.”

“Then why are you here in the dungeon and not upstairs preparing?”

“I am preparing! I’m getting you ready to perform, young master bard.”

“Perform?”

“Yes, here,” the man shoved a folio into Jaskier’s hands. “Learn this while we bathe and feed you. It must be perfect for tonight’s big event. I’ll give you any help you need to get it right.”

The bard’s eyes skimmed the words and grew increasingly round as he went along. “I won’t sing this. I _can’t_ sing this, not for a room full of strangers.”

“You can and you will,” the maestro insisted. Two young women were pulling Jaskier’s arms from his torn doublet and another three were pouring buckets of steaming water into a tub nearby. A pageboy stood in the corner holding a tray covered in different bite-sized snacks. “You will play this song on your lute tonight and sing the words or His Lordship won’t even save you for the werewolf's dinner. He’ll lie straight to the Witcher’s face about your safety and take care of you himself right now.”

Jaskier nodded his understanding absently and looked down at the pamphlet of music clutched in his fist. He only had eyes for the words on the page. Each line of verse was more terrible and painful than the last. _Rothbart had this written just for me,_ he knew.

Somehow, without a shadow of a doubt, he knew.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t need to see a party to know that he was the center of attention at one. It was obvious from the less-than-quiet whispers as guests commented on his _predicament_ or his _situation_ and few rare instances where Lord Von Rothbart was _going a little far this time._ The bard wanted to roll his eyes at that last one but nobody would have seen the gesture, so what was the point? 

_At least His Lordship has some panache and a flair for the dramatic,_ Jaskier smiled sadly, glancing around his elaborate new prison. Lord Von Rothbard designed it to look like a wire-frame birdcage; the bard almost retched at the overt symbolism of it all when they first bustled him inside. _At least I’m only being forced to perform and not being burned at the stake. I can live through this. Probably._

His hair had been washed and groomed out of his face and he’d been given a lovely baby-blue silk and brocade ensemble to wear. It reminded him of the one that had been ruined when Geralt found that djinn. He shook his head to clear it of the memory. That didn’t matter; the Witcher was probably long gone by now. 

The base of the birdcage was affixed to a set of wheels; it had been placed at the center of the dance floor and covered with a large swathe of blue velvet to keep the guests in suspense. He didn’t really know _why_ he’d been covered this way. Everyone knew who was under the strangely shaped dome in the middle of the room. _Except Geralt._ Oh gods, this Lord really expected Geralt to show up at the last second. What a laugh he was about to have when the Witcher didn’t show.

He had no hope of escape, either. One of his legs had been manacled to the floor of the cage. This cuff and chain were cleaner and newer than the ones in the dungeon, clearly spiffed up and shined for this very occasion. There was a wooden swing affixed to the bars at the center of the cage, held a few feet off the floor by a set of golden ropes. Jaskier knew he was meant to sit there with his lute and play later, he’d been told as much by the servant who’d gotten him presentable, but for now he preferred to pace back and forth. 

There were more whispers that Geralt had been sighted in town. More suppositions as to why he wasn’t yet at the party. Jaskier wished he could stuff his fingers into his ears and never hear another word, but he needed to listen for his cue. If he didn’t perform that horrible song then he’d be killed even faster. 

The bard’s busy mind would not cooperate with him in the slightest. It rushed with thoughts: If the Witcher was really out there, then why was Jaskier still in here? Von Rothbart had promised his freedom _as soon as the White Wolf set foot in my court._ So if he was in town...was he just not coming to the party? Had he seen the fliers and decided to let destiny take Jaskier off his hands once and for all? Had he missed the news entirely and ridden on, leaving Jaskier to die without ever knowing he could have stopped it? No matter how the bard imagined things going, this whole evening probably wasn’t ending well for him.

 _At least it would’ve made a great ballad,_ he consoled himself. _Too bad you won’t be around to write it._

Jaskier heard Lord Von Rothbart clap his hands to get the guests’ attention. He picked up his lute and sat on the swing, pushing himself back and forth at a comforting pace as he prepared to bare his soul for a room of uncaring strangers. _Fare thee well, Geralt of Rivia._ He wasn’t going to cry. He really wasn’t. _I love you._

* * *

“I don’t have any papers that say _White Wolf,_ ” Geralt argued, shaking the guard by the lapel of his leather jerkin. “My name is _Geralt of Rivia._ White Wolf is a nickname. I have the white fucking _hair_ that says I’m the _White fucking Wolf._ ”

“Well I can’t let you into the castle without papers.”

“Bureaucracy,” Geralt snarled. “I don’t have fucking time for this. I’m a fucking Witcher and I’m here to slay the werewolf. Tell your Lord _that._ ”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re a Witcher or a ballet dancer. He’ll only see the White Wolf.”

“Bring him down here and let me speak to him.”

“He’s busy getting ready for the party tonight,” the guard retorted. “Too bad I’ll be at my post all night or I’d be attending.”

“Too bad.”

“Well, be on your way, then. You’re not getting in.”

“At least not right here,” the Witcher muttered under his breath, taking Roach’s reins and making his way back down the path. He’d have to find another way in. He wasn’t about to let Jaskier get eaten by werewolves, not when the last thing Geralt had done was _yell at him_ for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t let the bard die without telling him- he just couldn’t let the bard die. 

There had to be another way in.

* * *

There _was_ another way in, Geralt discovered. A hole that he quickly cut through the hedges at the very back line of the property. Roach’s bridle was secured to a sturdy tree branch and Geralt gave her a parting pat. “I’ll bring the bard back with me.”

She knickered softly as if to say _you’d better._

Now Geralt was waiting in the shadows of the garden statuary, biding his time. He could see through the castle’s large front window and into the ballroom, where an odd fabric bell was hanging suspended from the ceiling. No sign of Jaskier as far as he could tell. Perhaps the barkeep had been misinformed, or perhaps the bard had not been brought up from the dungeon yet. He shuddered to think of Jaskier in any sort of captivity. The bright-eyed bard was meant to be a free creature.

He considered crashing the party right now and demanding Jaskier’s safety, but he had no doubt the Lord would be less than cooperative. Whether or not he did the werewolf job free of charge, Geralt was sure Von Rothbart would fuck him over somehow. Most likely he’d hurt Jaskier and that thought was somehow _intolerable._

He focused on the guests. Which one was the Lord? That one was too old, that one was too nervous, _ah!_ _There you are._ A man only barely older than Jaskier stood near the music conductor, a woman dripping in velvet and gemstones hanging off his arm. His own clothes were richly made and deep in color, symbolizing his wealth and status. Just as Geralt was about to go flying through the panes of the garden window, Von Rothbart clapped his hands twice, loudly. 

The party came to a standstill.

“I am a very lucky man,” the Lord announced, “I have gotten twofold entertainment from _one_ bard this evening!”

The Witcher’s stomach twisted in disgust when the partygoers laughed, clearly on board with the werewolf baiting idea. Clearly _anticipating_ it. 

Von Rothbart clapped his hands again and the velvet bell went spinning up into the air only - only it wasn’t a bell at all. No, the large swathe of velvet hanging in the center of the dance floor had been the cover for an _enormous bird cage;_ at the center of which sat Jaskier on a small wooden swing. A silver chain hung from his ankle down to the floor where it was no doubt bolted in place. The gloating Lord had returned his lute to him and they...they were _forcing him to play._

Geralt didn’t need his heightened sense of smell to catch the scents of salt and misery on the wind. He didn’t need enhanced sight to see the tears making their way down Jaskier’s face as he began to play and sing. It wasn’t a song the Witcher recognized, but the lyrics were very personal and very painful. He imagined it must have felt like walking on glass for his poor lark to perform like this.

Usually he loved to have all eyes on him. Usually his voice was bright and full of energy. Not now. Right now the bard looked like he wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest rather than continue performing. He looked terrified and miserable and _hopeless._ Geralt had never seen him so defeated. 

The tune was almost _jaunty,_ teasingly upbeat for words so poisonous. It pained the Witcher to hear his bard’s voice sounding so broken, but he forced himself to listen:

“I'm stuck in a state of severe confusion.

I'm stuck in a state of benign disillusion,

Because I feel that I just can't refuse in

Finding my way back to you.

“You caught me off guard, with your highly trained words.

You picked up the knowledge of the calls of the birds.

And I leaned in to hear what you were saying to _her_ ,

But your voice just wouldn't come through.”

Jaskier’s voice wavered and he flinched, his eyes fixed on the nobleman’s face. Geralt wished he could see Von Rothbart’s expression. He wanted to know why his fearless Jaskier, who would spit insults at a bandit mid-fight or go flying over the table if someone so much as _looked_ at Geralt the wrong way in a tavern, gazed at this man with such incredible _fear_ in his blue eyes.

“And I couldn't believe that you wouldn't receive

The hints that I was sending;

And I couldn't quite tell if you knew it was hell

To deal with your pretending.

So please make up your mind,

Be present or just be resigned.

“I'm caught in a net of severe confusion,

A bear trap well placed in a leafy illusion,

An ironic cage of iron seclusion

That is locked and is missing it's key.”

That lyric was blatantly barbed and Geralt’s heart clenched violently at the hollow-eyed look on Jaskier’s face. He never thought the bard could ever look so _utterly miserable._ What had Von Rothbart _done_ to him? What had the idiot Lordling _said_ to him that made him look somehow flayed open as he sang?

“I was wondering if you had known what you've done,

Or if all your cruel torment has only begun.

But you didn't expect that you'd be outdone,

For I found a new man who loves me.

“And I couldn't believe that you wouldn't receive

The hints that I was sending;

And I couldn't quite tell if you knew it was hell

To deal with your pretending.

So please make up your mind

Be present or just be resigned.”

The bard’s voice came to a shuddering stop and he began to shake his head at something Von Rothbart had muttered to a guard. He had his back to the bars, as far away from the Lord as he could get, yanking like a panicked animal at the chain that kept him trapped in the birdcage. He wasn’t making any sounds or Geralt would have heard him, which meant that he wasn’t breathing in enough oxygen to scream or shout. _Don’t panic, Jaskier. I’m here for you._

Von Rothbart approached the birdcage and sneered something through the bars. Something that made Jaskier clutch at his chest as if he was in serious physical pain. _Was the Lord a mage? Was he using magic to hurt Jaskier? He was going to pay for this._

The Lordling made a quick series of gestures and his guests all moved to one side of the room. Two servants opened the glass doors that led to the back patio, forcing Geralt further into the darkness to avoid being seen. Four heavily armored guards wheeled the birdcage out into the open night air and positioned it front and center in front of the dance floor. They returned to the safety of the building and began to shut the door from inside. “Shout for your White Wolf,” Von Rothbart jeered through the last open crack in the door as it closed. “And see which wolf appears first! Yours or mine.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier remained quiet. No witty retorts or indignant demands. Only soft, choked sounds as the bard’s shoulders shook from the force of his sobs. He was clearly trying to stay as silent as possible in fear of the werewolf wandering the property but he couldn’t help hiccuping here and there. 

The Witcher crept closer, sticking to the shadows of the tall hedges. Party guests milled in little groups past the window and laughed with one another as if Jaskier’s job as live bait was just part of the entertainment. Geralt realized with a sad shake of his head that it probably _was_ part of the entertainment. 

“There’s no point yelling,” Jaskier gasped to the empty air between sobs, giving up on his attempted silence. “Geralt won’t come this time _anyway_ . He doesn’t _want me_ anymore.”

The surety Jaskier put behind those two statements did something _wretched_ to the Witcher’s heart. He had to stifle a gasp; it was so intensely painful. He suddenly realized exactly why the bard had been clutching at his chest inside. He felt it now. It was _heartbreak._ Geralt’s heart was tearing itself to shreds over the fact that he had ever made Jaskier feel so alone. So abandoned.

He slid between the hedge walls and shadows, drawing closer and closer until he could creep alongside the cage without being spotted by the party guests. “Little lark,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’d hoped to never see you caged like this.”

“Von Rothbart thought it would be aesthetically pleasing to have me displayed this way when his werewolf ripped the spleen from my convulsing body and howled at the moon.”

The image was visceral and sent a pang of fear and dread through the center of Geralt’s very being. He sighed and tried to peek up through the bars at his bard, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. The fucking guards wouldn’t _let me in._ They said I needed papers proving that I was the White Wolf.”

“Was the hair not enough?”

“That’s what I said!”

Jaskier giggled but it was a sad and watery sound. Not like his usual laugh at all. He sounded tired when he asked, “Why are you here, Geralt? Didn’t you say that you wanted some peace?”

“I’m an idiot and a fool for saying those things to you.”

“I’m the fool,” Jaskier sniffed. “It’s literally my job.”

“No, you’re a bard. There’s a difference. You change history with your songs and your stories. You decide who gets crowned the victor and who plays the villain. You are the source of all the light on the Continent, Jaskier. You are _no_ fool.”

“Von Rothbart said you didn’t want to come for me. He said that people had seen you pass through town, ignoring all the posters about _my_ party. He said you wanted to let me _rot._ ”

“Jaskier, I would never-”

“I know,” the bard interrupted. “But I am so lonely, Geralt. I’m so tired of being the only person you lash out at. Yennefer doesn’t get treated this way. I don’t know if it’s your wish connection or what, but she can get away with anything. I can’t ask for a fucking _nap_ without getting _screamed at_ lately _._ She - she doesn’t even _love you_ like I do. She doesn’t even _care_ about you like I do. I _worry_ about you constantly and yet-”

“You love me?” Geralt asked, interrupting the bard’s angry flow of words. 

“Well...of course,” Jaskier gave a breathless laugh. “I’ve _met_ you. How could I _not_ love you?”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything he could say to convince Jaskier he was _wrong_ to love a Witcher. The bard would never give up so easily; Geralt wasn’t sure he wanted the bard to give up at all. He started picking the lock holding Jaskier’s ankle cuff closed, his movements borderline frantic. “I’ll have you free in a moment, my lark.”

“ _Your_ lark, huh?”

“The barkeep said they were using the White Wolf’s _personal bard_ as werewolf bait. I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“I’m not _your_ bard, Geralt of Rivia. I just happen to prefer you over other folk heroes.”

“Is that so?”

“No,” the bard shrugged. “But I wanted a moment of superiority. I love you endlessly, Geralt. Please get me out of here alive.”

“I’ll keep you safe tonight and always. I swear on my life,” the Witcher promised. The look in his amber eyes was full of surety and hope, things Jaskier could explore more later. When the light of the full fucking moon wasn’t beating down on them and the threat of a dangerous monster wasn’t looming over their heads.

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you love me too?”

“Of course I love you, Jaskier. I wouldn’t come running to your side so quickly if I wasn’t so damned in love with you. Also, please stop getting yourself _kidnapped.”_

“Well if you answered peoples’ summons every once and awhile, angry nobles would stop _kidnapping me._ ” 

“It makes for good ballads, at least.”

“You’re a real bastard, Geralt of Rivia. I hope you know that.”

The anklet dropped to the floor of the cage and Geralt wrenched open the cast-iron door. He lowered Jaskier gently to the ground and immediately wrapped his cloak around the bard’s shoulders. The Witcher handed Jaskier the lute and swept the exhausted man up into his arms. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about the werewolf?”

“I’m going to let it eat that stupid Lordling first. Then I’ll kill it.”

“Geralt…”

“Fine. But I’m leaving you with Roach first. Someone needs to keep an eye on you at all times, apparently.”

“Geralt.”

“Hush, lark,” the Witcher pressed his lips to Jaskier’s and felt the man freezing in his arms. He pulled back quickly, hoping that the moon did not reveal the blush on his cheeks. “We need to get you safe and I need to get that wolf.”

“My wolf came first,” Jaskier sighed, planting another kiss on Geralt’s cheek. “I win, Rothbrat.”

“Clever.”

“It took me too long for it to be clever, but thank you, Geralt. You know how to please.”

“When I get done here, I’m going to whisk you away to an attic room somewhere and keep you there for a week.”

“You can’t afford a week at an inn.”

Geralt set his bard in Roach’s saddle and pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll be back shortly.”

* * *

Two days later they were resting up in that attic room, as promised. Geralt had two thin scratches down the front of his chest where the werewolf had slashed through his armor but Jaskier was no worse for wear, physically. Emotionally he had been...distant. Not as bright or silly as usual. There had been no bad jokes, no endless babbling, and no half-written songs being battered against his eardrums all afternoon while Jaskier tried to find rhyming couplets with good rhythm. Still in too much pain to move around, Geralt finally asked, “What’s bothering you, lark? You haven’t chirped all day.”

“You wanted peace. Are you irritated again? Should I leave?”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispered, an unfamiliar heat at the back of his eyes. He struggled into a sitting position and reached out for the bard’s hand, which he clutched against his naked chest, right over the bandages. “I am so sorry for ever saying those things to you, sweet bard.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” the bard gasped, yanking his hand back as if Geralt’s touch burned him. The Witcher averted his watery gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re always rescuing me and-”

“Did you forget that I love you back, or did you ignore me when I said it?”

“What?”

“I love you, lark, and you can’t drive me away now. I’ve promised to never see you caged again and I must see my promises through.”

“I thought that maybe I was dreaming when you said that. Or perhaps it was the shock of nearly being a werewolf’s dinner.”

“My heart could burst with the love it holds for you, Jaskier.”

“You are a charmer as well as a monster-slayer. Truly, I have been blessed by the gods. Now get into this tiny bed and hold me. I’m cold.”

“Anything for you, my lark. Now until the end of our days.”

"And _I'm_ the drama queen?" Jaskier teased. "Goodnight, Geralt."

"Hmm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and the lovely comments. <3 I'm having such a good time writing for this fandom and it's nice to know you guys are liking it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes? No? More or less whump?


End file.
